I.
A Song Of Spring.
Bird in thy mossy nest
Cosily hid,
Bird in thy mossy nest
Young leaves amid;
Nigh is thy tuneful mate,
Singing with glee;
Hopeful thy tuneful mate,
Hope gladdens thee:
Hope that from speckled eggs
Fledglings will grow;
Brood o'er the speckled eggs
Soon time will show.
Fearless of coming storm,
List how thy mate
Sings without fear of storm,
With joy elate.
Why, then, do men alone
Fear coming ill;
Only are men alone
Dread-haunted still?
Evil may never come!
Whence cometh fear?
The present is gladsome,
Be of good cheer.
II.
A Song Of Summer.
Bird in the leafy shade,
Quiet at rest,
Screened by the leafy shade,
Patient and blest;
Calm sleeps the summer noon
Round thy retreat;
Hot glares the summer noon,
Shadow is sweet.
Content in thy shady bower
Wait the cool breeze;
Then from thy shady bower
Flit through the trees.
In the cool eventide
Joyfully sing;
The winds at eventide
Fan with thy wing.
Man is not quite content
E'en when most blest.
Why is he not content,
Never at rest,
Taking with calm or joy
All that is sent,
Without the base alloy
Of discontent?
III.
A Song Of Autumn.
Bird 'mid the golden sheaves
Taking thy share,
Picking from ripened sheaves
Thy evening fare,
Sure with no thought of thee
Sown was the seed,
Heaped without thought of thee
Or of thy need.
Yet from another's toil
Thou takest the gain,
Fed by another's toil,
His was the pain.
But with thy mellow song
Cheered is his heart;
Sing then thy happy song,
Such is thy part.
Who should from weary toil
Seek to be free?
Fruit from thy weary toil
Thou may'st not see.
Nought but thy best aye do,
Some one will reap;
Strive then thy best to do,
Why should'st thou weep?
IV.
A Song Of Winter.
Bird on the leafless bough,
Summer has fled;
Bird on the leafless bough,
Flowers are dead.
Dead too thy trilling song,
Dead in thy grief;
Not e'en a saddened song
Mourns for the leaf.
E'en now on leafless bough
Swells the small bud;
Soon all the leafy bough
Blossoms shall stud.
Then 'mid the summer leaves,
Winter forgot,
Singing 'mid summer leaves,
Thy happy lot!
Why then, poor stricken soul!
Why dost thou grieve?
Thou knowest, smitten soul!
Time will relieve.
Ah ! will not mem'ry keep
Sharp grief alive?
Never will mem'ry sleep,
Howe'er I strive.
